


By Virtue of a Force

by rookmyfanwy



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Murder, Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rookmyfanwy/pseuds/rookmyfanwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a string of murders, Detective Beth Childs is thrown headfirst into a serial killer case that grows more convoluted with each revelation. As she tries to solve the mystery, she runs into an annoying rebel, a secretive politician, and a charming housewife that threatens to unravel her.</p>
<p>[serial killer AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Virtue of a Force

**Author's Note:**

> Also available on [Tumblr.](http://darwinsdreads.tumblr.com/post/91876007097/by-virtue-of-a-force)

 

 

“ _All matter originates and exists only by virtue of a force_

_which brings the particle of an atom to vibration and holds this_

_most minute solar system of the atom together.”_

_-Max Planck_

 

 

Detective Elizabeth Childs is not a happy camper.

 

She'd been moments away from much needed sleep, swaddled in her comforter and drowsily reading a few pages from the newspaper, when the call came. She'd picked up briskly, snapping a terse _“Childs”_ at the soul unfortunate enough to interrupt her relaxing evening.

 

Her mouth had soured as the attending officer outlined the situation:

 

Two bodies were found at separate locations with the same apparent MO.

 

“ _And what MO would that be?”_ she'd asked, pulling on her shoes and snatching her coat.

 

There was an audible gulp. _“I think you'd better see it yourself.”_

 

“ _I have to see it anyway, don't I,”_ she'd sniped, muttering curses as she looked for her keys. _“Where the hell is Art?”_

 

“ _We've notified Detective Bell and he's on his way. Deangelis was sent to the one on Hammond,”_ the cop had croaked.

 

She'd hung up then, locating her keys and gun before making her way to the scene.

 

Which is where she finds herself now, seriously contemplating a career change. The murder is in the Bailey Downs suburb in Scarborough, made a little less quaint by the uniforms swarming over the place.

 

Putting the car in park, she takes a deep breath, rolling her eyes up to the roof of her car as she exhales.

 

“Why am I a cop again?” Beth asks the ceiling.

 

It has no reply.

 

Yanking the keys out of the ignition, Beth pops a piece of gum into her mouth and steps out into the frosty air.

 

The chatter of the crime scene washes over her as her partner Art walks up. Clean shaven and in a classy coat, he's put together and looks ready for business.

 

_Forever the consummate professional._ She thinks unhappily. Beth feels painfully scraggly next to him- with second-day hair and dark circles under her eyes.

 

“Hey, Dipshit,” she greets anyway. “Always gotta beat me to the scene?”

 

“Maybe if you spent less time taking bubble baths you'd be on time,” the swarthy man replies, grinning at his stupid joke.

 

“That was a one time thing and we _agreed_ we wouldn't talk about it,” Beth grumbles. Art chuckles at her discomfort.

 

“Come on,” he says, jerking his head toward the house. “We have work to do.”

 

“No shit,” Beth replies, eying the faces peeking out of neighboring windows. “I hate working in suburbs.”

 

“No arguments here,” Art agrees. He glares at an observer for a few seconds, huffing out a laugh when the meek housewife quickly closes the curtain.

 

They move toward the scene, Art lifting the police tape for Beth. As she steps into the yard she examines the house. It's a carbon copy of the other homes on the street, right down to the carefully maintained flower beds. The windows are intact and the door is unbroken, standing wide open in welcome of its murderous guest.

 

“Doesn't look like a break in,” she comments.

 

Art agrees with an _incredibly_ thoughtful, “Yeah.”

 

They walk across the threshold and are immediately greeted by blood.

 

A red hand print streaks across the wall to the right. A puddle sits three steps forward. Half of a bloody shoe print is visible next to the staircase. Everything is neatly labeled, with suited techs meticulously snapping pictures and taking samples.

 

_All in a late fucking night's work,_ she mentally grouses.

 

“Beth! Over here!” a familiar voice calls. She turns to see a bespectacled woman giving her a little wave.

 

“Cosima! I had no idea you would be joining us today,” Beth responds, walking over. The dread-locked pathologist spent the last year tagging along with the precinct’s head ME, Doctor Cormier, for her forensic pathology rotation. She was only recently hired on as an assistant medical examiner. “Is this your first solo call?”

 

“Yep! It's also, like, one of the worst cases I've seen.” Cosima admits, adjusting her glasses in discomfort.

 

“So I've heard,” Art pipes in from behind Beth. “Hey, Niehaus. No hello for your favorite detective?”

 

“Hi, Art,” Cosima says with a smile. “Sorry. This case is rattling some of the newer guys. All of the vomit has been messing with me.”

 

“Don't have to worry about that with us,” Art replies. “Shall we?”

 

“Obviously,” Cosima says with a little eye roll.

 

They walk past the staircase, passing some innocuous family photos spattered with blood, and into the open living room.

 

Beth balks at the sight that greets her.

 

“Holy. Shit.”

 

_Art may have been a bit optimistic_ _about the vomit_ _._

 

Cosima gives a sympathetic nod.

 

The body- a blonde woman- hangs by the neck from a light fixture in the middle of the room. Her eyes are closed, mouth slack. The thin wire cuts into her neck, blood dripping down like paint, the formerly beige carpet below stained dark red. Her torso gapes open from torso to navel, enlightening Beth as to what her organs look like while still inside her. Wrists are slashed, leaving the hands dangling in unnatural positions.

 

Beth grimaces at the spectacle, wrinkling her nose at the overpowering smell of iron. She can feel panic itching at the back of her throat.

 

_Suck it up_ _and d_ _isassociate._ _This is why you're on meds,_ she thinks.

 

She takes a small breath. The scene washes away in front of her eyes, colors graying,turning it into something intangible. Manageable. She's disconnected, feeling more like a passive observer than a present investigator.

 

“Give me the situation. Other than 'fucked up,'” she grits out, reluctantly taking a step forward.

 

“Aynsley Norris, aged twenty nine- according to her husband,” Cosima begins, stepping closer to the body. “Body temp reading puts her time of death around four or five hours ago.”

 

“Any guesses as to which injury killed her?” Art asks, moving around to see behind the corpse.

 

“Well, I can't really say for sure until she's back at the lab, but right now it's looking like she was suffocated. See the bruising?” the ME responds, pointing at the body's neck. Beth follows her finger, avoiding looking at the victim's face.

 

“There are also lacerations on her fingers, showing signs of a struggle.” Cosima curls her fingers around an invisible wire around her neck, miming the act of pulling against it.

 

“Brutal,” Beth surmises. She crouches down, carefully avoiding the pool of red, to get a better look at the wrecked wrists. The stench of blood is overpowering. It's so potent she has to chew her gum faster to prevent tasting it.

 

“What's the deal with the wrists?” Beth asks, pressing a fist against her mouth.

 

“Seems unnecessary,” Art adds, moving on from the body to the surrounding room.

 

“The slashing could have been the official cause of death or it could have been done after she died.” Cosima shrugs. “Like I said, I can't say for sure until I get her in the lab.”

 

Art moves back to face the corpse. His brow furrows as he asks, “What about the gutting?”

 

Beth stands up to face the young doctor, watching her face scrunch in confusion. “ _That_ is the real mystery to me. It seems like it happened after she died. And it doesn't seem defensive...”

 

The detective's eyes inadvertently drop to the body's stomach. Her lips curl in disgust.

 

“I just don't know why,” Cosima continues, withdrawing into her own mind, “It could be, like, some weird ritual body preparation. Or maybe they were looking for something. Which is totally disgusting. They probably just rooted around poking things-”

 

Beth holds up a hand to cut off the scientist, hoping no one notices her trembling pinky finger. “Let's save the theorizing for the lab, okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” Cosima says, adjusting her glasses as she's pulled back from her own brain.

 

Shaking her head, Beth moves over to join Art. He's paused at the bookshelf.

 

“Any good reads?” she asks wryly. He tilts his head in consideration. She scans the titles, seeing trashy romance novels and self help books. There's even one on beginner's yoga.

 

“There's a book missing.” he states, pointing at a gap in an otherwise full shelf.

 

“Has anybody seen a misplaced book?” Beth yells, turning to face the crime scene guys.

 

One tech steps up nervously. “Uh, Detective? We found a book in the kitchen. It's open and has, uh, some pretty creepy stuff.”

 

Beth cocks a brow at Art. “Guess you aren't such an unobservant ass after all.”

 

Art scowls, turning to address the newcomer. “Lead the way... uh.”

 

“Scott. Scott Smith,” the boyish tech supplies eagerly, moving nowhere at all.

 

They stare at each other for an awkward second. Beth takes pity on the rookie.

 

“This is the part where you take us to the book.”

 

“Right! Right,” Scott says with a sheepish smile. He turns around quickly, leading them to the kitchen.

 

True to his word, there's a Bible laying open in the middle of the island, a lonely yellow number six resting next to it.

 

A passage, Romans 7:24, is circled in what appears to be blood:

 

_What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?_

 

“Charming,” Beth drawls. She turns to Scott, waving a hand at the Bible. “Nice find.”

 

“T-thanks!” he stutters. He ducks his head at the compliment.

 

“Murdering psycho with a warped religious cause?” Art pipes up, turning to give Beth a significant look. “You know what this means...”

 

“Paperwork.” Beth grimaces.

 

“Worse,” Art says ominously, his face darkening.

 

“Press.”

 

**

 

“Hey, Cormier. See anything else interesting?”

 

Halfway across the city, Doctor Delphine Cormier halts her third external examination of the corpse, looking over her shoulder at the ever eager Detective Angela Deangelis. She'd practically called dibs on the head ME as soon as word spread that this case was going to be big.

 

Normally, Delphine ignores the rumor mill.

 

As Delphine carefully places the lacerated wrist down and stands, she concedes that this is anything but normal.

 

“Do you care that her hair is dyed?” she asks with an eyebrow raised. Delphine has already given her guess as to cause of death: strangled with some sort of wire, with little to no struggle from the victim (most likely too intoxicated to fight, if she had to guess based on the needle marks littering the dead woman's arms).

 

Angela clicks her tongue in annoyance. No doubt she's received word the other murder is a bit more dramatic. Cosima has been sending her a stream of texts at the blonde's request. The messages are painting quite a picture. A similar picture, in fact.

 

The victims are women in their late twenties. They both seem to have been suffocated. Both bodies have the strange wrist mutilation.

 

_Serial killer,_ Delphine thinks unhappily.

 

The last thing she and Cosima need.

 

For her first time out alone, the junior examiner is getting quite the job. Worry niggles at the back of Delphine's mind.

 

She just wants Cosima to succeed. A serial killer case can be a career guillotine for unprepared examiners.

 

“Was it done at a salon or at home?” Angela barks, crossing her arms in irritation. Delphine lets the attitude slide. It is one thirty in the morning, after all.

 

“Probably done at home, considering the roots are pretty horrible,” she replies calmly.

 

“Damn,” the detective mutters. “What about ID?”

 

“I'll have to pull dental records when I get her in the lab. There's nothing on her body,” Delphine says, shaking her head.

 

Her pocket vibrates.

 

Slipping off her gloves and standing, she pulls out her phone and sees there's one new message from Cosima.

 

_hey, doc d._ _beth n art found creepy bible stuff. whole passage circled in blood. anything on ur end?_

 

“Detective?” the doctor calls, walking over. “Have you seen anything Biblical here?”

 

“Like what?” Angela asks, moving her hands to her hips.

 

“Well, Cosima said that Detectives Childs and Bell found a Bible with a'passage circled in blood?'” she shrugs. This part isn't her job.

 

“Course she told _you_ ,” the detective chuckles with no humor.

 

_What is that supposed to mean?_

 

Before she can ask for clarification, Angela turns around and yells, “Look around for a Bible!”

 

Delphine turns away from the angry woman, shaking off her confusion. She types a reply.

 

_I don't think so. How's it going?_

 

The phone vibrates almost immediately.

 

_rly freaky. y do u think mine's gutted_ _a_ _n_ _d_ _urs isn'_ _t?_

 

The disembowelment had been a major departure for the two cases. The woman in front of her lacks any attempted invasive procedures.

 

_Not sure. Maybe it isn't the same killer?_

 

A copycat killer is always a possibility.

 

_just a freaky coincidence? yea, right_

 

Delphine rolls her eyes at Cosima's dismissal. The younger woman shuns coincidence, always seeing connections in everything. Amazingly, she's right more often than not.

 

_Don't tell me you have a theory already._

 

There's a flurry of action after she sends the message. She glances at Cosima's reply- _u kno_ _w_ _me too well ;) -_ before seeing a crime scene guy tap Angela's arm.

 

“We found a book- not the Bible, but religious,” the guy says, handing over a small novel. “It has something highlighted. In blood.”

 

Delphine sidles closer, trying to not to look like she's eavesdropping.

 

“'They yearn for what they fear for,'”Angela reads, face scrunching.There's a moment of silence.

 

“What the fuck?!” she bursts out. Flipping the novel over, she lets out a huge sigh upon reading the title. “ _Dante's Inferno._ Of course. Killer couldn't be a big fan of Shel Silverstein. No, no. That'd be _too_ low brow.”

 

If there weren't a dead body occupying the room, Delphine might have laughed. Instead, she shoots a text to Cosima.

 

_Found Dante's Inferno._ _There was a q_ _uote circled in blood: 'They yearn for what they fear for.'_

 

_charming. killer thinks he's an artist._

 

_Serial killers sometimes do, Cosima._

 

_whoa, didn't think we were throwing around those 2 dirty words yet_

 

“Doctor Cormier, shouldn't you be examining? Stuff?” Angela says suddenly. Delphine's thumbs freeze over her phone.

 

“I've done all I can. I'm just waiting for the transport to show up,” she informs the cranky detective, failing to hide her smile at Cosima's euphemism.

 

The brunette narrows her eyes. “If you say so, Doc.”

 

If Cosima was at the scene, she would make some cheeky observation about Deangelis' grumpiness. Deangelis would fire back, allowing her to vent some steam. Without Cosima, Angela stews- a cloud of anger at injustice following her every step.

 

The blonde has come to rely on Cosima's effervescence. Sometimes Delphine also finds herself mired in cynicism. She'll curse humanity and its selfishness. Cruelty. But, Cosima is usually there with her giant smile, drawing her out of the darkness and helping her see the silver lining.

 

Delphine misses her.

 

_Ridiculous._ She mentally scoffs. _I work with her every day._

 

A tiny part of her brain pipes up, _But not today._

 

As if summoned by her thoughts, Delphine's phone buzzes with a new message from the dread-locked ray of sunshine.

 

Its contents send Delphine's stomach plummeting to her feet.

 

_red alert left kidney has been removed_

 

Her loud “fuck!” makes more than a few heads turn.

 

**

 

Art raps sharply on the door of 324 B Street, heedless of the fact it's now three in the morning. The knock rings out over the dwindling murmur of police in the yard down the street. As the body was transported away (and with it left Beth's unhealthy compartmentalization), street cops were called back to their patrols and life went on. It's the unfortunate truth of a murder investigation- there's no time to dwell.

 

Shifting uncomfortably in the cold air, Beth huffs a sigh when Art raps on the door again.

 

“Maybe she's not home,” Beth says, adjusting her blue scarf. They are hoping to catch one Alison Hendrix- best friends with the deceased, if what the victim's husband sobbed out is to be believed- and ask her a few questions.

 

“Her van is here,” Art points out, nodding toward a red minivan parked in the driveway.

 

“Maybe it's not her van,” she retorts.

 

Just then the door cracks open. It's a woman with mussed bangs bleary blinking up at Art.

 

“What do you want?” she snaps, venomous tone undercut by her cute blue pajamas and the sleep mask around her neck. Beth suppresses a smirk at the incongruity.

 

“Are you Alison Hendrix?” Art asks. She nods slightly. “I'm Detective Bell and this is my partner Detective Childs,” Art introduces breezily, flashing his badge. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions.”

 

She straightens up, eyes widening. “Yes, of course,” she says, opening the door to allow them to pass.

 

Beth pretends not to notice the frantic way she smooths her hair and clothes when they walk by. Instead, she looks around the room- taking in the neatly organized board games, Legos, and books tucked away in bins. The whole place seems homey in a way the victim's house hadn't.

 

Spotting a family picture, Beth notices two kids and a man sporting the same gold band as Alison. She asks, “Is your husband home, Miss Hendrix?”

 

“Please, call me Alison,” she insists, waving her left hand at the couch. _Ring-less_ _,_ Beth notes with surprise and... relief?

 

“Unfortunately, my ex-husband and I are divorced,” Alison says, confirming Beth's suspicions. She rubs the back of her neck briefly, seemingly uncomfortable with the admission.

 

“I'm sorry to hear that, Alison,” Beth replies, hoping that the other woman doesn't hear the tinge of insincerity in her voice.

 

Art clears his throat, glancing meaningfully towards the couch as he sits. She follows suit, pulling out a notepad. It's their typical arrangement; Art asks the questions and Beth watches nonverbal responses. Alison settles across from them, posture impeccable for a late night interview.

 

“Alison,” Art begins, “We're here about your friend Aynsley Norris.”

 

She perks up at the name, an unreadable expression flitting over her face. “What about her?” It's only then she picks up on their somber expressions. “Has something happened?”

 

“Do you know anyone that would want to hurt her?” he asks. It's a redirect, straight out of the academy textbooks. Don't play your hand too early, but still probe for information. It's hard to get accurate accounts from hysterical subjects.

 

“No. Aynsley is always... nice!” Alison says, the last word coming out a bit too forcefully. Her left hand curls inward reflexively.

 

_Hidden conflict: Hendrix._ Beth writes.

 

“No enemies? No grudges? Nothing?” Art asks again.

 

Alison bites her lip at his queries.

 

Sensing her hesitation, Art presses on. “Nothing is too trivial for us, Alison. Even if it was an argument at the supermarket over potatoes.”

 

She sighs, pursing her lips before admitting, “She is a bit... nosy at times.”

 

Beth writes Alison's assessment down as Art asks, “How so?”

 

“Well, she pokes around in everyone's business. She was always asking about fights with Donnie, or between Veronica and Tyler down the street. I even caught her snooping in Charlotte's yard!” she says, bringing her fingertips up to rest on her chin.

 

“Can I get last names?” Beth pipes up, pen lifted over the paper.

 

“Of course. Veronica and Tyler Preston and Charlotte and Thomas Newton.” she supplies. Her voice trembles a bit as she asks, “Now what's happened to Aynsley?”

 

Art sighs, leaning forward to place a hand on Alison's shoulder. “I'm sorry, Alison. Your friend is dead.”

 

“What?” Alison gasps. “I just spoke to her yesterday!”

 

“I'm very sorry,” Art repeats. Alison flounders for a response, eyes beginning to shine with tears. Beth looks down at her notes and swallows past the lump in her throat.

 

As the small woman begins to cry, Beth presses her lips together, disgusted that people are willing to inflict this kind of pain on one another.

 


End file.
